The scent of rosemary and roasted garlic filled the dining room, but it did nothing to settle the tight coil of anxiety in my chest. Richard sat at the head of the table, beaming as he raised his glass. "To Miles," he said, his voice carrying a pride that reverberated through the room. "Back where he belongs."
A chorus of agreement followed, but I couldn't bring myself to join. My fingers tightened around my fork as Miles leaned back in his chair across from me, his gaze like a steady current pulling me under. He didn't toast. He didn't smile. He just watched me with that inscrutable expression that made my skin prickle.
"You're quiet tonight, Riley," Richard said, his tone genial but curious. "Everything alright?"
"Just tired," I replied, forcing a smile that felt like a poorly fitted mask. My voice sounded steady, even if my heartbeat wasn't.
Richard nodded, satisfied, and turned to my mother to discuss some mundane detail about the firm's next charity gala. The conversation swirled around me like white noise. I risked a glance at Miles. His lips curved into the faintest of smirks, as if he knew exactly why I was on edge.
"Not enjoying the feast?" he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.
"It's fine," I replied curtly, stabbing a piece of roasted potato. My jaw clenched as he leaned forward slightly, his movements measured.
"Fine," he repeated, drawing out the word like a slow drag of a knife. "High praise, coming from you."
"Do you ever stop?" My voice was barely above a whisper, but the irritation in it was unmistakable.
He tilted his head, his expression shifting into something almost thoughtful. "Stop what?"
"Whatever this is," I said, gesturing subtly between us. My face burned as I realized I'd drawn an invisible line only he seemed to understand.
He chuckled softly, the sound laced with mockery. "Let me know when you figure it out."
I dropped my fork onto my plate with a soft clatter, my appetite thoroughly gone. Miles, of course, continued eating like nothing had happened, his calm demeanor only fueling my frustration.
The evening dragged on, the tension between us crackling like static electricity. Every time I looked up, his gaze was waiting, sharp and unreadable. It was maddening. I barely registered when Richard suggested a round of charades after dinner, my mother eagerly agreeing.
"Come on, Riley," my mother urged, her tone coaxing. "It'll be fun."
Fun. Right. I forced myself to my feet and followed everyone into the living room.
The game started innocently enough, with exaggerated gestures and laughter filling the space. But when it was my turn, Miles stepped forward, his eyes locked on mine.
"I'll give the clues," he said smoothly, his voice slicing through the room. My stomach twisted.
I crossed my arms. "I'm fine on my own."
"Humor me," he said, his lips curving into a challenge.
The room went still, the others oblivious to the charged undercurrent. He held out the slip of paper for me to draw, and I snatched it without a word. The moment my eyes scanned the word—betrayal—my breath caught.
"Go on," he said, his tone deceptively light.
I mimed the first clue, my movements stiff and deliberate. The others guessed eagerly, their voices overlapping as they threw out possibilities. All the while, Miles stood silently, his gaze boring into me.
"Not even close," he said finally, his voice pitched low enough for only me to hear. "You'll have to try harder."
My patience snapped. "How about you stop pretending this is a game?"
The words came out sharper than I intended, and the room fell silent. My mother looked at me in confusion, her brow furrowing, but I couldn't take it back. Couldn't take any of it back.
Miles stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "I didn't realize you hated losing so much," he said softly, his words biting in a way that made my chest ache.
Without another word, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the room. The air outside the living room felt colder, sharper. My breaths came fast and shallow as I leaned against the hallway wall, willing myself to calm down.
Footsteps approached, deliberate and unhurried. I didn't need to look to know it was him.
"Riley." His voice was soft, almost coaxing, but it carried an edge that sent shivers down my spine.
I didn't move. I couldn't. He stepped closer, his hand bracing against the wall beside my head. My pulse thundered as he leaned in, his face so close I could feel the warmth of his breath.
"You can't keep running," he said, his tone low and dangerous.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I'm not—"
"You are," he interrupted, his voice like a velvet blade. "And it's getting boring."
Before I could muster a reply, he pulled back, his expression a mix of frustration and something darker. His eyes lingered on mine, his gaze a storm I couldn't decipher.
"Goodnight, Riley."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me breathless and shaken in the dim hallway. My hands trembled as I pressed them to the wall, my thoughts a jumbled mess of anger, confusion, and something I refused to name.
Whatever storm had swept into my life, it was far from over. And Miles was at its center.